So I know this is supposed to be something off the top of my head, but I just don't have time. So this is an excerpt from an already written story of mine. It's about Grayson, an FBI agent whose wife has gone missing. He isn't allowed on her case so he takes it into his own hands to cut corners and find her himself.
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Quote:

Music resounded sluggishly from the old speakers mounted on the walls of the near perfect elevator. Grayson stood perfectly still in the back of the large box, focusing on each breath he took. They were not steady as he inhaled, instead they were rock and fear stricken as his he had been trying to outrun a beast from his nightmares. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to just disappear from the face of the planet never to be seen again, but that would never work. He glanced around the empty elevator, knowing that what he was seeing was just a hallucination toying with his psyche. He wasn’t alone in the elevator. He could feel people around him and hear their whispers that focused on what a sad state he was in, but the fact was that he couldn’t see them. Maybe it was his madness telling him that he had finally done it, he had cracked and he couldn’t be fixed. Every bit of his mind had been lost when he had been given the news that no husband wanted to hear.

Three months ago Grayson’s wife, Rachel, went missing. Three months ago Grayson’s world tore apart at the seams. Three months ago Grayson had been just like everyone else.

Grayson was breaking down now, losing faith in everything he once believed in, starting with the FBI. Not once had they ever taken this long to find someone. Usually they would have evidence pouring out of every crevice, leading them to at least one suspect, but now there was nothing. No leads, no evidence, not even a single trace of Rachel. She should have been seen by someone, anyone at all, but there wasn’t a single account at all. The Bureau, his friends, the experts of law enforcement, were letting him down and they all knew it.

But Grayson wasn’t the only one mourning her disappearance. Rachel was his wife, yes, but she knew people at the bureau, she had friends there. Truitt Kavanagh was just one of the many that knew her. He had been the agent assigned to her rape case years ago and he, just like Grayson, was frustrated with the lack of work being done to find her. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that Truitt felt the same as Grayson did. He saw it every time they passed each other in the halls. The sympathy and empathy that filled Truitt’s eyes as he gazed at the nearly empty shell that was Grayson, it broke what pieces were left in his heart. Grayson was a mess; he knew it as much as the next person. His eyes had dark bags under them, his cheeks were sunken in, and his complexion had become pale. He was almost unrecognizable, but it was understandable considering the circumstances.

Grayson stepped out of the elevator once it reached the SVU floors. The first step onto the tile was eminent, proving to both him and everyone else that he hadn’t given up completely. He let out a sigh and brought a large hand to his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. His temple throbbed from yet another headache brought on by worry. The headaches were normal by now, Grayson had gotten used to them after the first month of constant the constant dread that had laughed at his pathetic disposition.

Tears welled beneath his eyelids, but he chose to ignore them. He refused to cry even if the tears were his only sanctuary, the only thing that actually made him feel human. Grayson was out of tears, he couldn’t cry anymore despite how much he begged himself to. Crying hadn’t done him any good. It only created a false sense of security, cradling him behind the black veil that shielded him from the potential truth.

Truitt’s office would be the first room Grayson passed as he made his way to his own office. It was hard to walk by the man’s office without stopping to look in. Rachel had spent so many hours in that office with Truitt, just talking to him, trying to get a little bit of advice from him. It killed Grayson to know that she wouldn’t be there for a while. He wouldn’t hear her laugh when Truitt cracked a joke that really hadn’t been that funny. He wouldn’t be able to look in and see her smile at before biting her lower lip and turning back around in her chair. Grayson respected Truitt more than any other agent at the bureau, but it took energy to carry out that amount of adoration. He wanted so badly to push Truitt away, to alienate him like he had everyone else, but it was an impossible task. Truitt was the only one who cared whether Grayson kissed the bullet or not. He was genuinely concerned about Grayson’s well-being, and that was exactly why Grayson didn’t want him around. The more Truitt bothered with the broken down man before him, the more Grayson respected him against his will and that small bit of extra respect opened another wound.

Hushed whispers and superfluous laugh echoed through the halls as Grayson continued to walk toward his office. His feet thought for themselves, carrying him to Truitt’s office once again. He wanted to leave and pass right by the open door, but he desired the comfort of a friend who in a minimal way understood what he was going through. Truitt’s twins had been kidnapped a year ago, but they were found within a few days. Everyone fought to find them, keeping late hours just to get a single clue. Grayson had been there for Truitt and his wife Gwen, trying to keep them sane when it seemed like they were ready to give up all hope. It had been Brisco Fitzgerald who eventually found the siblings in an abandoned shack just outside of Quantico. But Grayson had brought them home to their parents.

Grayson leaned against the door frame and held his breath for a moment. He crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled. His body ached to be able to turn back time, to keep Rachel from leaving the house that morning. He would have pulled her back in bed and held her down if he had known she wouldn’t come back. He knew she wasn’t with another man, Grayson gave her the world and more, she had no need to find someone else. No, Rachel would have at least called him and broke their marriage off. He could have dealt with that. It would have been easy to get over her if that had been the case, but it wasn’t and he was pleading inside for some kind of answer. Even if the result was damaging he wanted to know, he needed to know.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder gently, breaking through his thoughts. Grayson turned his head to face the half smile that Truitt was wearing. It was funny how he could stand to be an optimist when Grayson had left that side of the fence long ago.

“Want to come in?” Truitt asked.

Grayson stared for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah.” He said.

Grayson took a step into Truitt’s office and lowered himself into the closet chair near the large oak desk. Truitt could have easily sat behind his desk and treated Grayson like a patient, analyzing his every move, but instead he sat next to him. Truitt leaned back and shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting for something to be said. Neither man spoke for fear of fueling the fire that surrounded them, threatening to choke every last breath out of them. But it was Truitt who made the first effort to crack the thick ice.

“How are you holding up?” He asked softly. The question was redundant, but necessary. Truitt asked it every time they sat down to talk as if it were a secret code that would soon allow them to talk about the real issue.

“I don’t know.” Grayson admitted. He could have lied and said he was fine or terrible, but honesty had always intrigued him. How was he really supposed to know how he felt? Was there a test, a meter of some sort that determined his emotions on a one to ten scale? Grayson stared at his feet and bit his lower lip, trying to figure out if it was worth even voicing what was obviously being shown on his sleeve.

He turned his head to look at Truitt when he stood to close the door. Truitt returned to the seat next to Grayson again and took to staring at the walls as he waited for his friend to continue.

“Why can’t we find her?” Grayson blurted out. He hadn’t wanted to say that, but there it was in the open.

“I don’t know, Grayson.” Truitt said after sucking in a sharp breath.

“But you have to, Wit. You are the best goddamn agent here.” Grayson said on the verge of yelling. “You have to know something.”

Truitt stopped staring at the walls and turned slowly to face Grayson. The expression on his face was odd with his brow quirked and a slight sneer curling his lips. “I’m telling you that I don’t.” he told the younger man. “What I know is what you know, which –“

“Which is nothing.” Grayson said, finishing the sentence. He threw his head back, banging it into the wall behind him. He closed his eyes, trying to picture Rachel standing close to him again. He opened his eyes when her memory began to fade, “Sometimes I don’t feel anything.” Grayson said as if he were only speaking to himself. “Sometimes I’m numb and I don’t like it.” He looked to Truitt who had been staring at him from the moment he hit his head. “It’s like the pain decides to give me a break and takes everything with it.” He added.

Truitt opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped. It was almost as if nothing he said would bring comfort to this situation; He chose to speak anyway. “I know the feeling.” He confessed.

“You would.” Truitt countered. His eyes had narrowed and his lips tightened as his temper began to rise. Truitt wasn’t one to get angry or even allow someone to push him to that point, but when someone doubted the way he felt, telling him that he had just made it all up, it never set well with him. “Every time I stood in Tallulah and Fritz’s rooms, I went numb. I couldn’t fathom what it would feel like if we never found them or if they were dead, so I shut it all off. I chose to feel nothing to replace the amount of emotion that threatened to suffocate me every second that they were gone. So yes, I know the feeling all too well.” He explained, still trying to remain on the middle ground and not raise his voice.

“I can’t do this anymore, Wit. I can’t keep falling into the grave my mind has dug. It hurts and I can’t get past it.” Grayson said, his voice cracking just slightly. The pain that he had tried to forget came back and began to rip at his insides, trying to prove to him that he couldn’t get rid of it no matter how hard he tried. Still, Grayson remained stone-faced as he sat in his chair ignoring the fact that his gut was laughing at him, telling him that he was a fool. Hell, he agreed completely, but he wouldn’t admit it.

“You have to.” Truitt said. His voice broke through Grayson’s thoughts, making him look at the older man again. “You aren’t the only one in this Grayson. You aren’t the only one hurting because she’s gone.” Truitt told him. “What about Rachel? Don’t you think that she feels the exact same way because she isn’t with you?”

Grayson bit his lip to keep it from trembling. Truitt’s questions were the gasoline to the inferno. Tears welled in Grayson’s eyes and he knew that he would never be quick enough to stop them from falling. “I would give anything to hear her tell me that.” He said. “I’d give anything to just hear her at all, but I can’t do this knowing that I don’t have a chance it hell to even hear her utter a syllable. We have nothing and it is killing me.” He conceded. The tears had begun to fall before he had even finished talking. It wasn’t something he was going to hide right then, Truitt had seen him cry more time than he was comfortable with, but it didn’t matter. Truitt was his saving grace, when everyone else gave up on him.

"You can't say that and mean it." Grayson remarked. "You know as well as I do that we are no closer to getting her back then we were when she first disappeared."

Truitt grabbed onto Grayson’s shoulder firmly. "Are you even listening to yourself? How can you sit here and doubt everything you stand for? Rachel is the woman that you shed blood for. She's the woman whose love almost killed you. Why are you letting that go so easily?" he asked with an inch of venom riding on his words.

"I'm not letting it go. I'm just setting it on the back burner, hoping that I can find some peace without it." Grayson confessed.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Grayson asked slightly confused.

"Why are you sacrificing that feeling for peace? Doesn't Rachel deserve to be thought of every now and then?" Truitt responded.

"Don't I deserve to sleep every now and then?" Grayson shot back. "Look at me Wit. I'm fucked up and we both know it. I can't continue to let the memories grab hold of me and pull me back in, it hurts. I think about Rachel and she fades even faster than she already has been." Grayson turned away from Truitt and cradled his face in his palms. "I can't even remember her favorite color." he added.

Grayson felt pathetic and angry. He hated the fact that he was giving up on Rachel that he was trying to forget her to be near her. It wasn't right, he knew that, but it didn't change the fact that he kept trying. Rachel would never give up if he was the one missing, she'd clock Truitt to get answers, but for some reasons Grayson's fists felt sympathy fro the older man's face. Grayson shook his head. "I never thought she'd be gone." he whispered. He stood up and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, getting rid of any excess tears that clung to his lashes. He took a deep breath and looked at Truitt as he continued to sit. "Promise me you won't give up." he pleaded. He knew the answer before it was even said, but it was merely a matter of hearing the words said out loud. They brought hope to an otherwise hopeless situation.

"I swear." Truitt said in little more than a whisper. Grayson nodded and walked out of the office, stopping in the door way just for a moment. He listened hard, swearing that he heard her voice calling to him. He shook his head and stepped away from the room, making his way to his own office. He wasn't going to let the insanity get the best of him; he was tired of losing to himself.

But I've seriously got to get the following passage out of my head, and better sooner than later:

Sunlight, filtered through woven tentfabric greeted his eyes as he slowly drifted out of dreamless slumber. His head seemed to be swirling amidst a sea of dull aches and pains from across his body, from his bruised legs to the right arm of his which he found now cast in a sling and fastened securely across his chest.

He raised his head to take a look around amidst the midmorning sun. Lying across the room he spotted his armaments, the lightweight mail slashed, malled, and slightly bloodstained; his shield scratched and broken, and his sword, sheathed, lying across them.

Hunter was about to ask where he was, but was interrupted by a stout, yet not loud voice answering the question for him from the other side.

"If you go dancing with a wolf, you'll certainly smell like one in the morning, won't you?" A man in his fifties folded his book, setting it aside as he stood up and walked over.

"What?" Hunter bemused. His memories of the previous night were as hazy as the lingering wisps of fog outside the tent. Sure, something had attacked him in the night -- something with deadly sharp fangs and claws in its posession -- but it wasn't a wolf.

"Pardon my joking, sir," the man nodded, offering Hunter a shake of his left hand. "But you were attacked by that werewolf, and we have to take precautions."

"What . . . precautions?" Hunter inquired. Werewolves were just a myth, a fairy tale to keep young children indoors at night. There was absolutely no such thing.

The man looked at Hunter's armor. "You were in quite the tussle with that feral. Lucky for you, your armor took the worst of it. If it weren't for that...," the man pointed to Hunter's slung arm, "the feral beast might've taken your arm clean off, or maybe even your neck. As it is you have several claw and bite wounds, they will need time to heal."

"...But there's no such thing as a...?"

"...Were-wolf?" The man interjected, chuckling. "That's the first question that every victim asks. Yes, sir, that was a feral wolf -- or werewolf -- who attacked you."

Hunter looked at the man's eyes, their stern personal convictions clashing. Obviously this man firmly believed in such tales as were-wolves. And as much as Hunter reviled to admit -- he could find no other word fit to describe his attacker. The mental image of a wolf balanced upright on its hind legs, its claws and eyes reflecting the pale moonlight, standing six feet tall, lashing its tail like a whip and howling into the air -- was almost a perfect visage of what he thought he saw.

"Yes," the man answered. "But if you're worried about waking up on four legs and howling at the moon -- don't be. You may have been clawed and bitten by the were-wolf, but that doesn't mean you will be turning into one yourself."

Hunter sighed; it was nice of the man to anticipate and remove any doubts.

"--But you're still infected," the man added. "We'll have to keep you under observation."

"What?" Hunter asked.

"You may not be a werewolf, nor ever will be, but you've become a carrier. You could still infect someone else -- possibly turning them into a were-wolf instead!"

Hunter was taken aback by such words. Hunter knew the myth; become bitten, turn into a werewolf. But there was nothing in the myths about being a 'carrier'.

"Still...," the man paused. "You're not at risk for turning into a feral, much less a were-wolf, so why would the beast attack you? Werewolves do not seek out normal humans to attack....

"It wasn't after you. Tell me, sir, were you travelling alone?"

A realization dawned on Hunter. His fellow Guardsman, his travelling companion. They had both been attacked the previous night, but only Hunter was here in the morning. Where was his comrade!?

"Khatra!" Hunter exclaimed.

The other man sighed. "It was after him, then... and if that's the case... he's probably been turned into one of them by now."

"A ... were-wolf?" Hunter asked. He did not want to believe it, no matter how reasonable this man sounded.

NaNoWriMo can count as a sort of freewriting, right? I was able to write 2,600 words today, exactly the type of pace I need to finish by the 30th.

An excerpt:

Their path back to the tribe was interrupted by a roar as the Depraved assaulted their path, blocking their route. They quickly scattered and surrounded the beast, all twelve of them; the twin scouts grouped behind Kitan, Narul with Kal; Nirae with Nali and her mother Surai, Skree standing back with Raiak and Rava the elder, while Hyran stepped forward first, keeping a watchful eye on the beast as it glanced about itself, taking count of its intended victims.

This was not merely a saur, but a large one at that, standing at least three times as tall as Surai's large body and at least five times as long. The Depraved's native body was little more than a small masque over its head, partially covering its skull and eyes but no more. The saur's scales would be too thick for either fang or claw to penetrate, leaving the exposed Depraved flesh its only remaining vulnerable point.

Judging by the scent, the Depraved must have fused to this creature a long time ago, months or possibly even a year. It posessed full control over the saur's body; Surai advised that even her large tige form would be a poor match against the massive creature; Hyran identified that the creature's cold smell and heavy body mass would make it sluggish; speed, rather than strength, would be their weapon here. The hunters among them could serve as distractions to allow the scouts time to assail the creature's blind spots and strike directly at the exposed Depraved flesh atop its head.

For, as Skree and they all well knew, the creature would be able to track them, and they could not risk allowing it anywhere near Velaar's tribe.

The saur focused its gaze towards Skree, then began stepping forward on approach, a slow gesture even by saurian standards. It was confident in its massive size, secure in its knowledge that the hardened scales of its body were impenetrable, as its heavy footsteps kicked up dirt and loose grasses. It stepped again, they regrouped around it, and Kitan dared to make the first strike.

He dove straight for the creature's hind legs, grabbing hold of its rough scales and vaulting himself higher; soon he was on the saur's backside, scampering along its spine as its turned its head, briefly catching a glimpse of the attacker heading directly for its brain.

Kitan was upon the Depraved's exposed native body in another heartbeat, and immediately sank his sharp teeth into one of its tendrils, originally a leg. Predictably, a deafening roar from the beast and a stumbling of its body mass to the ground indicated a loss of control over its corresponding limb, as the creature lost balance and fell, crushing against the ground with such force that Kitan was thrown off and aside.